Do not go gentle into that good night, / Old age should burn and rave at close of day; / Rage, rage against the dying of the light. / Though wise men at their end know dark is right, / Because their words had forked no lightning they / Do not go gentle into that good night. / Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright / Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, / Rage, rage against the dying of the light. / Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, / And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, / Do not go gentle into that good night. / Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight / Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, / Rage, rage against the dying of the light. / And you, my father, there on the sad height, / Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. / Do not go gentle into that good night. / Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Dylan Thomas